The List
by deepandlovelydark
Summary: Finally, the perfect scam: conning the Phoenix Foundation into buying you everything you ever wanted. Only now, your apartment's now full of clothes that are too tall for you, and Westerns you won't read, and a second-hand guitar you can't play, and when did this plan go so wrong, anyway?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: a rejiggered version of an AU of mine. Based rather heavily on "The Mountain of Youth"._

Pete groans, pours more non-dairy creamer into a mediocre cup of coffee. This is going to be one of those nights.

"Jack, MacGyver's dead. We had a memorial service. You set my house on fire afterwards."

"Aw, it was only the bar. Nobody should have been drinking at Mac's wake, I just made sure they didn't. But it wasn't even real, was it? No body."

There's a clink of cheap cup hitting shaky table. One of LA's more obscure diners. This is not a conversation he wants the Phoenix Foundation to know ever happened. "He'd requested a cremation. Said it was more ecologically sound."

"I bribed the funeral director. He never saw a body either. So I started calling around, to figure out who'd seen him last - would you believe I even tracked down that English assassin? Can't say as I recommend his idea of a skiing vacation. In fact, it seems the last person who saw Mac was me. Last year, when you guys had me fly him out to the Ammukash again."

He should never, Pete reflects, have allowed that breach of secrecy. Only it'd been so last-minute, and MacGyver had insisted... "Was that all you wanted to say to me? That you've successfully tracked down the location where he died? I don't see how that does anybody much good."

"Not a lot," Jack agrees, noisily slurping. "If, that is, he is dead. I think he isn't. I think you guys finally talked the idiot into a long-term cover mission, the kind he always ducked out of before. I think he's busy sabotaging the nuclear power plant the Chinese keep trying to build there, and making sure that the entire planet doesn't hear about that magical water of youth. Speaking of which, I figure he might be on that mission quite a while."

Nonsense. Stuff and utter nonsense.

The only trouble is, Jack's also correct.

"Suppose," Pete says casually, downing his drink in one. "Suppose I asked if you'd mentioned this idea of yours to anyone?"

"Why would I do that? You're the only one I need to blackmail."

Jack passes over a single piece of paper. Phoenix Foundation letterhead at the top. "I broke into your office earlier, so I could do this up nice on your raised-letter typewriter. No trouble reading it, right?"

Cheeky rascal. "No. What is this? A shopping list?"

"Sure, just like I wrote down there. Ten SAKs of the models I've specified, couple of rolls of duct tape, I don't know about the contact lenses but you must have his prescription on file somewhere -"

"Hold on. Hold on. What's it all for?"

"Look, I know exactly how much luggage Mac brought on my plane. Extra change of clothes and a spare knife. Even for him, that's pretty rushed packing."

Pete sighs. "The first tanks rolled into the valley about an hour after you dropped him off. That the entire Chinese leadership isn't now immortal suggests that whatever he did to stave them off, it worked...and he's promised to stay put until Phoenix can figure out what to make of this situation. There's no precedents for how to ethically handle a genuine, reliable, but limited source of immortality, and currently we're strongly inclined to just leave well enough alone- why would he need two Rolexes?"

"Because he's going to break the first one open and use the crystal for some kinda thingamajig. I should make that three."

"A bag of polished, high-carat diamonds and rubies."

"You never know when you'll need some ready cash."

"A guitar. You want to go on an espionage mission with a guitar?"

"Sure. He loves noodling around with the thing. Maybe he can teach me how to play, while he's at it."

"You- no. Absolutely not. In fact, you are not going anywhere near the Ammukash. Understand?"

"Nope."

"Jack, I mean it. The only thing, and I mean the only thing, that the board and I can all agree on right now is that MacGyver's the only person ethical enough to trust with this thing. You aren't even close to being that reliable."

"Mac'll keep me in line if he's around, you know that. As opposed, I don't know, to my making a small fortune flogging this story to every other secret agency in the alphabet?"

"None of them would believe you."

"Wanna bet? How will that fit in to the Phoenix ethics calculations, if the CIA and everybody else start sniffing around the place too? I mean, I don't have much of reputation as a spy, but I sure am known for having a big mouth. People'll hear."

Dammit. They will.

A coo, a girlish giggle, and now there's an unwanted refill in his cup; has Jack been amusing himself by flirting with the waitress? "We aren't talking about a weekend there and back again. He might be there for years. And we can't have his cover blown by your continually wandering in and out of the place, either."

"I figured that," Jack says, with a shudder in his voice. "That's what the list's for. All the stuff of civilisation I don't really wanna do without- well, there's a lot more of that, but I'm trying to be realistic here. If he's bent on staying put there, I figure I can do the same...you know he's got an even worse case of wanderlust than I do. He oughta have someone to keep him company."

The pilot's quiet now. Regretful, but determined. Pete's starting to think he's serious.

Not that he intends to let on. "And I'm supposed to believe you'll spend god knows how long there, out of sentiment? Is that what I'm supposed to tell the board, when they ask why I let you go?"

"Just don't mention it to them. Besides, how much of a motive do you think I need?"

"Let's put it this way. Is there an ulterior motive to all this?"

"Let's see," Jack says thoughtfully. "Here's our hero, terrific smile, long brown hair, athletic, both can and has pulled just by walking down the street…"

Pete closes his eyes. He just wishes he could close his ears as well.

"…nah, immortality's good. You want to draw up an NDA for me to sign saying I promise not to mention any of this?"


	2. Chapter 2

_SAKs_

That much is obvious.

A Phoenix Foundation requisitions clerk lets him have his pick from supplies. Even now, they keep a box in waiting with MacGyver's name on it, filled with pristine, factory-fresh models.

"Knew he'd be needing them eventually. Now you'll want at least one Tinker and a Super Tinker at the very least, but that's just the start. He was favouring the Spartan these last few years, so you'll be wanting that too, and before that he was getting through a good many Recruit Economies…shall I just give you one of every type? Make up an even dozen."

The clerk blathers on about such inanities at length, at tediously loquacious length, but Jack finds he doesn't mind too much. Talking with someone who genuinely believes that Mac's alive is kinda soothing.

"Can you tell me what this one is?" he asks, proffering a beige-brown knife that's been living in his jacket pocket a good deal these last few months.

"Spartan Hardwood- no, bless my soul, that's an original design! The age of that wood, I'd guess it might even be one of the first 1890s knives. You wouldn't be interested in selling it, by any chance?"

Jack tosses it up in the air carelessly. He knows he won't. It was the one thing he pocketed when they were cleaning out Mac's place, after the funeral. (The others were surprised at his restraint.)

Still. The conman in him can't resist stringing this out a little.

"Maybe. How much?"

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Camping gear_

He cleans out his plane's survival kit and is surprised by the sheer amount of weight she's been lugging around needlessly. Medical supplies, compass, canteen, fishing gear, sleeping bag, way too much equipment for a solo pilot. He's ripped the seats out of more than one plane to save on ounces, while all this has been eating up precious fuel.

Good quality stuff though. Mac's bought most of it for him over the years, replacing articles in disgust as one or another cut-rate bargain inevitably failed on them when performing in crisis.

"As much for me as it is for you, Jack. At least next time I get stuck in a plane crash with you, I'll have a mug that doesn't leak and a lighter that actually works!"

Really, he's just returning the favour.

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Guitar_

He knows where the guitar went. Penny took it for a remembrance. Also because she's the only one of Mac's friends who knows how to play the thing.

But it's hard to get to see her these days - she's finally made it Big Time, broken LA and become a genuine Hollywood star. Lead actress on some superhero series or other. Even the Phoenix machinery only snags him an appointment for the week after next.

Mac would have just waited out the fortnight, being patient and somewhat better at intelligence, but his style's more direct. Break into the apartment in the dead of night, seduce her when it goes horribly wrong! A motorcycle chase after her car, when she drives off the lot after a day's shooting. Calling in a favour from a sympathetic editor, to run a tearful "seeking my dead friend's guitar" headline in one of the trashy tabloids they both read.

It's not the lack of ideas that stops him. And given where this trip is going to end up, it's hardly a failure of nerve either.

So why is he just waiting out the fortnight?

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Watches_

He does get the Rolexes, though not the kind he asked for. Three Submariners, with sapphire crystals. A note from Pete accompanies the gift-wrapped boxes.

"The contact lenses will be along next week. These might come in handy where you're going. Don't try to sell them on the black market, I'll find out."

Jack frowns. How much more does the operations director know that he isn't letting on?

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Tape deck_

Easy: the 1987 Sony WM-F107, the only solar-powered Walkman ever built. Plus it's sleek and waterproof, plus it has a radio. Maybe he's not quite so tech-savvy as MacGyver, but he's wanted one of these babies ever since they came out.

Picking the music, now? That's going to be the hard part.

While thinking that one over, he takes a day to drive to Earthquake Toberman's place, up in the mountains. They don't get along at all - the Vietnam vet doesn't need his prize pup to smell "draft dodger" all over Jack - but he remembers hearing at the last Phoenix Christmas bash that the guy is into carpentry and light metalworking. There's no one else he knows (now) (currently accessible) who can fix things up like that.

"I need a custom-built box to hold twenty cassettes. As light as possible and absolutely waterproof."

Toberman grunts, pulls down the "Open" sign hanging off his porch. "Get yourself some cheap plastic casing in the city, then. You don't need my good handicraft for that."

"It's not for me. It's for Mac."

"Thought he was dead."

Which, legally, is the case, Jack remembers. He was not supposed to come out here and spill top-secret spy secrets. Pete'll kill him if he ever finds out.

"Never believed it. Homecoming present, then?"

"Something like that."

"Thirty dollars. Come back in three weeks, I got some projects on right now. And give him some John Lennon or somebody reasonable like that, not any of that Deadhead garbage you probably listen to."

That much just happens to be true; his first stint in professional flying was co-piloting a decrepit Cessna, following the Grateful Dead's concert route. Helping hippies get literally as well as metaphorically high. One of the best summers of his life, and Jack's strongly tempted to demonstrate that people who never saw 'Nam know how to fight too.

Only, there's a little tickle at the back of his mind. A soft, slow voice, as clear in his head as though he's hearing it for real.

 _Jack, c'mon. Remember, he's a friend of mine._

"We talkin' solo or Beatles-era here? Because I never even made it through the White Album the first time around."

"Hell, make it Double Fantasy for all I care," Toberman says, and ruffles his dog's ears affectionately.

Dammit, he'd better find Mac soon. This whole business is turning him way too soft.

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Cassettes_

One tape for every band. He can do this, right? He can do this.

The Phoenix Foundation contains multitudes, in its ample underground facilities. Jack finds an entire recording studio with terrific acoustics, and spends the next several days buying music and crafting pitch-perfect mixtapes. Only the very best songs from every artist, singles and album tracks mixed concordantly. Ideal recordings without the slightest static or crackle.

Grateful Dead, Alice Cooper, The Who, Bee Gees. America. Don Henley's "Building the Perfect Beast". Pat Benatar. Jimmy Buffett. Both Dire Straits and a clean re-recording of his bootleg masterpiece, a tape consisting of every single version of "Brothers in Arms" that Mark Knopfler's ever sung, each longer than the last. Great for getting drunk to.

Ten for him: what would Mac like? He's pretty laid-back when it comes to music, but fair is fair.

Earlier stuff then, that he remembers them both enjoying as Minnesota high-schoolers. Elvis, Monkees, Beatles, Beach Boys. He can't find Ennio Morricone on tape at all. Record it directly from the vinyl, then. Frank Sinatra. The Four Seasons. Jimi Hendrix, James Bond themes. Round it out with "Desperado".

He toasts himself in ginger ale when it's finished (no liquor allowed on Phoenix property). Still hardly seems like enough, to last an entire lifetime.

 _Cheer up. A hundred years ago, none of this music even existed yet._

"Shut up, you. I'm coming as fast as I can."

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Clothing_

Somehow, Mac's pile has ended up a lot bigger than his.

After all, he has his heirloom peaked cap and much-worn leather jacket, both of which he'll be wearing just as always. Throw in a couple of clean pants and shirts, extra socks and underwear, he's done.

But Mac, now- for starters, there's the game bag that's been living in his closet for years. "Oops-I've-been-framed-by-our-own-side-and-hafta-run-for-it" emergency gear ("I trust the Phoenix Foundation way more than the DXS, but - just in case, huh?") So all those blue jeans have to come along. Then some hockey-themed baseball caps too frivolous for undercover work, a warm blue polar fleece- Mac wouldn't have thought of bringing cold-weather gear to a desert, right? Henley undershirts. Buffalo plaid flannels: the man looks sharp in checks. Is it worth bringing a dinner jacket? Might as well.

His bedroom becomes a shrine to plastic-wrapped fashions, bought in haste and contemplated in leisure, and once the packing is finally settled there's a huge pile of not-making-the-grade leftovers. The rest all goes to the kids at the Challengers Club. Cynthia's grateful, in a distant sort of way. Pete's probably tipped her off that it's all Phoenix-sponsored charity anyway.

"Hey, I know that most of Mac's things were brought here, after. You wouldn't still have his black motorcycle jacket, would you?"

"Good quality things like that get snapped up pretty quickly around here, particularly if they're at all fashionable. Although in this particular case-" She gives him what might be her first smile of the day and points at the back of her office door. A familiar cowhide rests on a hanger.

"I like looking at it sometimes, when things get too stressful and I'm on the point of losing my temper. The patience of that man - he never shouted at the kids, never begrudged staying after volunteer hours to fix a broken inner tube, or answering the millionth question that day. We still haven't found a substitute for him, and if you ask me, it'll be a long time before we do."

Okay. Mac's definitely going to have more use for this than a social worker lady who's never even gonna wear the thing, right? What the hell's the point of that?

 _Jack. Be nice._

He buys a second-hand Perfecto at an overpriced boutique the next day. It's a better cut anyway.

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Guitar redux_

"Can I have your guitar?"

"Please," Penny says, gesturing at the instrument with the shyest little wave. "Have you ever had a haunted guitar? He keeps singing to me, at night, and it's so lovely but I don't think I can stand hearing very much more." She leans towards him, her small face very serious. "I think it must be lonely. Will you bring it back to MacGyver for me, so they'll be happy together?"

"Sure, Penny. Anything you like."

This is not Jack Dalton saying this, accepting her honed wackiness with patient calm. This is vintage Mac.

Haunted guitar indeed, he wants to say. Try a haunted personality.

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Books_

 _Flashback._

 _It's dark. You're tied to a chairlift. An assassin is shoving his antique six-shooter somewhere it'll really hurt if it goes off, while he embarks on a bizarre monologue about how overrated Shakespeare is._

 _Murdoc kills people the way you favour bacon for breakfast: all the time and way too much. This is a situation that's clearly meant to freak you out._

 _"Read Tolstoy's essay sometimes! The cry of a sane man, against the madness of the ages- are you even listening to me?"_

 _Well, freak somebody out. Because the complimentary drinks at the ski lodge have you pleasantly sozzled, and you're not scared of heights at all, and really- "No. Are you sure you meant this horror scenario for me? Because this all kinda feels like you planned it for Mac instead."_

 _"In absence of better company," Murdoc hisses, pulling the gun up until it's straight over your heart. "Not that you'll be nearly as much fun to kill, but mend and make do."_

 _You've been on Mac's trail for months without getting anywhere. All your usual Great Game sources have dried up. Maybe you're not a good enough spy to figure it out. Maybe you'll never be a good enough spy to figure it out._

 _Maybe he really is dead._

 _"Is that it? You finally quit beating around the bush and actually shot him? Because if that's what happened, just go ahead and shoot me too. Last thing Mac would want me to do is to take vengeance on his murderer."_

 _You mean it. He knows it._

 _He puts away the gun in disgust. "You know, I rather had the idea that you were more fun then this. No, to borrow one of your quaint Americanisms, I have not done for him, and I rather doubt anybody has. To return to the point. You could go to the ends of the earth, but afterwards there will still be somebody quoting endless dreary snippets of the Immoral Bard at you and thinking they're being oh-so-witty."_

 _Murdoc grins nastily, his scarred face glistening in the moonlight. Still doesn't faze you. "Which is as much of a hint as you're going to get."_

 _He slices the bonds loose and shoves you over in one graceful motion. Without the skis. It takes hours to descend the mountain on foot._

 _Worst skiing vacation ever._

 _Still, at least it means he can skip packing Shakespeare and bring a lot of Westerns along instead._

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Chow_

The crumpled supply list he showed Pete back in that diner is getting a little dog-eared now, but it's still mostly legible. Funny: he's finally in the money, and yet he's barely used that Phoenix charge card for anything interesting. Some chocolate and three weeks worth of MREs certainly don't count.

Oh well, the next item'll be more fun.

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Gemstones_

"I don't see why you asked me along," Nikki Carpenter tells him, as she swerves around an interloper on the exit ramp. "You do know I was only pretending to be a lapidary expert that one time?"

"Sure, sure. But I figured, hey, that's closer than I've ever made it. How'd your bug-checking go?"

"Just finished before we left. Were you were counting on that?"

"Yeah. I happen to be going on a mission for the Foundation. Might never come back," Jack says, with elaborate casualness. "I may not even want to, so just in case- ever heard of the Grand Sanction?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Keep an ear out for it. Because if I don't come back that's one thing, but whatever's going on there swallowed up Mac too. And you know it'd have to be something pretty drastic to have taken him down."

"Uh-huh. And in which exotic foreign locale are you enjoying this extended picnic, if I may ask?"

"Can't tell you. Pete's sworn me to secrecy."

"So you're finishing up the preparatory stages now, I take it. Have you studied the latest aerial reconnaissance photos of the area yet? Seen a doctor? Made a will?"

"Working on it. Give me a break, I was only ever a part-time spy!"

Nikki takes her attention off the road for a good long look at him. "That's not how the intelligence game works, tenderfoot. Better decide now if you're in or out, because going into this half-hearted just means you'll lose everything."

"I already did," Jack blurts out.

He hadn't meant to say so. Not to someone who's lost her husband to the Game.

"Oh. So it was like that, was it?" Her tone softens. "Tell me, when we pick up this jewelry, is it going to include a ring as well?"

"Nikki, you know he's dead. Ask Pete if you don't believe me."

"Oh, please. Anyone who's been watching you over the last month could tell you're planning to disappear off the face of the earth, with someone who doesn't take your size in shirt collars. Do me a favour. When you go out there seeking Mac for real, try to cover your tracks a little more diligently?"

He grunts in agreement, as they park and head into the jeweler's. "Fine. Why were you keeping tabs on me, anyway?"

"Pete asked me to, in case you went on a mad spending spree. I have to say, you've been surprisingly restrained."

"Mmm. Mac told me once he'd never wear a ring anyway. Too liable to get stained or just plain dangerous in his line of work - hey, is that a sterling silver harmonica? That he'll like. I'll take it."

Nikki glances at the discreet price tag. Five hundred dollars. This is exactly the kind of pointless expenditure that Pete had asked her to steer Jack away from.

Eh. It's nice seeing that the madcap charmer she remembers has a little of his joie de vivre back.

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Plane_

This one's for subtraction, not addition. The sporty red Tri-Pacer he's been flying lately is an antique, and a little questionable about her landing gear, but she's been good to him; it'd break his heart to think of her rotting her engines out in a lonely desert. No, better to let her move on.

Besides, there's Kate and little Jack Jr to think of up in San Francisco. They aren't his and never will be, and he might have heaved an overly sentimental sigh about this once or twice to sympathetic (well-tipped) bartenders. Now it's only a relief, seeing as he can go off for good with a clear conscience. And the college fund can't go to a nicer kid.

But it's when he's signing over the plane to a freckle-faced teen with too much money and attitude, and realises that for the first time in over a decade he's bereft of any kind of flying apparatus whatsoever, that the impact really kicks in. This is it. Done. He's not coming back.

He's mortgaged his whole future on a few sharp guesses.

 _And hope, Jack. Don't forget hope._

If he can just keep believing that.

If he can just keep believing-

 _XXXXXXXXXXX_

 _Duck tape_

He's in line for a last-minute coffee at LAX, when he remembers he's forgotten to buy duck tape.

Swearing out loud, he abandons the cafe for a quick check through the newsagents. Flashlight (check), crummy candy (check), a magazine with Penny in a cape and very little else on its cover (he buys that one, just for the laugh.)

But no duck tape. Oh man, what's Mac gonna say when he shows up with no tape?

Desperate, he heads out of the the shop at top speed-

and runs smack into Francine Leyland. Dalton. His birth mother, the only living relative he's got left.

"Uh. Sorry, mom."

He's forgotten about her too, but that's more understandable. They only ever met a couple of times, before she was moved into witness protection for her own safety. "Shouldn't you be on a beach somewhere, drinking tequilas?"

"Nikki Carpenter told me to come. Say goodbye before you leave for good." She regards him with mildly sympathetic friendliness, as a cat-lover to a well-behaved dog. "We never did the mother-and-son thing that well, did we?"

"Guess not. Did you want to?"

"No."

"Me neither. Guess we both preferred it footloose, huh?"

She nods and gives him a hug. "Don't be careful. Talk to strangers. Eat dessert when you want it, because nobody ever lives twice. And that's about my limit for motherly advice."

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind. You look after yourself."

"You too."

She hands him a paper sack and vanishes into the crowd. They're calling his gate number now, but he takes a quick peek. Two rolls of sturdy grey duck tape. Nikki's a thoughtful woman.

Just one more thing he needs, waiting for him in Kabulstan. Worth more than every article on this overburdened luggage cart.

"Mac," Jack Dalton whispers to himself.

Time to go.

Here comes the rest of his life.


End file.
